January 16: Old Phoebe, Roller-Skate Skinny, Spelling Bee Worry

...But you ought to see old Phoebe.  She has this sort of red hair, a little bit like Allie's was, that's very short in the summertime.  In the summertime, she sticks it behind her ears.  She has nice, pretty little ears.  In the wintertime, it's pretty long, though.  Sometimes my mother braids it and sometimes she doesn't.  It's really nice, though.  She's only ten.  She's quite skinny, like me, but nice skinny.  Roller-skate skinny.  I watched her once from the window when she was crossing over Fifth Avenue to go up to the park, and that's what she is, roller-skate skinny...

Holden really loves his little sister, Phoebe.  She's practically the only person in the book whom Holden doesn't call a phony.  Like Allie, Holden's dead brother, Phoebe is an innocent.  Life has not had a chance to get hold of her yet.  She's still this roller-skate skinny girl, heading off to the park to play.  Nothing is purer in Holden's mind.

This passage reminds me of my daughter.  She, too, has sort of red hair, like Phoebe.  My daughter's auburn tresses are long now.  A couple of summers ago, she had it cut short one day.  It was curly and flashed in the July sun.  Because she's a dancer, however, she let it grow back out.  It almost reaches the middle of her back.  She's also let her bangs get long, as well, because she got tired of being the only girl in ballet who couldn't pull all her hair back into a bun.

My daughter hasn't been feeling well.  Upset stomach.  Headache.  Diarrhea.   (She would die if she knew I was writing about her diarrhea.)  She went to school on Monday.  She stayed home on Tuesday, although she did manage to make it to her dance open house.  Barely.  She spent most of the two hours on the floor with her eyes closed.  She was determined to go to school today for her spelling bee.  Her English teacher is taking her out to lunch at Pizza Hut before the competition.  My daughter's been studying her spelling list for two weeks.

That's my worry for this Worry Wednesday.  I want my daughter to be healthy.  I want her to enjoy her pizza.  I want her to do well in the spelling bee.  I can see her now, roller-skate skinny, standing in front of the judges, pushing her bangs behind her ears, saying, "Can you use that word in a sentence?"

Saint Marty hopes his Phoebe stomps her opponents.  He wants a trip to Nationals.  That's N-A-T-I-O-N-A-L-S.

The word is "diarrhea"